by A.J. Vega I February 28, 2022

I had arrived at the airport two hours before my flight, as was my custom when traveling. I was with my beloved bride as we boogied our way through TSA, taking off shoes as they examined our bags and cleared us before we headed to our gate. And as we approached we, again, as custom, saw that our flight wasn’t even labeled over our gate yet because we were so early. Shocker. But honestly, who wants to be that person running up and down the airport trying to catch a flight? And so, our journey through those 120 minutes of waiting consisted of sitting, standing, walking, talking and boredom as we explored the halls of the airport. Eventually, my stomach growled for a snack from the gift shop.

We make our way through the store as we peruse and peer through the racks of chips and candies and glance at the books we will never read. And as I’m walking, I make a supernatural gesture as my hands glide through the denim openings of my jeans only to find myself realizing that I’m committing a societal crime in public.

Yes, from the beginning of my life, putting my hands in my pockets was a forbidden rule placed over me by my mother.

And shortly realizing the societal sin that I’ve just committed, I quickly pull my hands out, shake them off, and keep going. I wonder if someone might’ve thought I was stealing something off the shelf.

We check out with our Reese’s, Diet Cokes and chips as we head to our gate that finally has the right city listed over it. We sit and I begin to process with Krissy.

I ask, “Did you see that?”

“See what?"

“Me putting my hands in my pockets in there. I never do that. It was so weird.”

“What? Why was it weird?” Krissy questions.

And just like that two worlds collided.

I explain to her, “My mom always told me not to put my hands in my pockets in stores so people don’t think I’m stealing.”

And my wife’s face sinks with such sadness. “That’s heartbreaking that your mom had to tell you that.”

And just like that, these empty pockets pour out memories like sand spilling out of a glass jar.

I’m a caramel colored (I call myself that because I’m sweet), black and Puerto Rican American whose hands could never be hidden from the world. Whose words were never allowed a grammatical error (it’s “I’m doing well” not “good”) and whose temper could never be hotter than the fall of the Long Island suburb streets I grew up on. And who could never be late to anything, lest the remarks of “lazy” be placed alongside my skin.

These empty pockets are full of memories.

***

A.J. Vega is the Director of Discipleship and Family Life/Church Planter in Residence at ACTS Church Leander, Texas (LCMS).